


The Last Drop

by Phyona



Series: The First and Last Trilogy [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Drinking Games, Heavy Drinking, Intense Conversations, M/M, Pre-Slash, Spooning, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Witty Banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-31 15:05:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phyona/pseuds/Phyona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John fend off boredom with a night of heavy drinking.</p><p>(<a href="http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=40416&extra=page%3D1&page=1">Chinese Translation</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It has been an absolute pleasure writing this fanfic. I hope you enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you already. I just need you to know that.

 

"I'm bored!" Sherlock sneered, as he kicked a stack of papers across the sitting room of 221B Baker St.

"Strange, I've never heard you say that before," John mumbled from behind a newspaper that he was having little success in reading. His persistent flatmate had been proclaiming his duress for about an hour, and John was doing his best to ignore the tantrum. Of course, this meant sitting in his chair and staring at black ink on grey paper without actually reading it, but Sherlock didn't need to know that.

"How can you just sit there?" Sherlock spat at him, as though John's stasis had something to do with their current case drought.

"Very easily, actually. I suggest you give it a try. A bit of leisurely reading would do you some good."

"You haven't read a word of that paper in ages."

"I…um…"

"Oh, what a magnificently banal existence mediocre minds entertain…"

"Oi! How can I read it with you-"

"I need a case, John!" Sherlock bellowed, striding across the tattered rugs of their sitting room. He snatched the newspaper from John's fingers, and tossed it over his shoulder, before bracing his hands on the armrests of his chair. John's breath caught in his throat as Sherlock leaned in close.

"Well, what do you expect me to do about it; murder someone?" he choked out, trying his best to avoid the piercing blue eyes that were only inches away from his own.

"Don't be ridiculous. I couldn't imagine a homicide less challenging than one committed by you, the master of sentiment and just cause." John wasn't sure if he should be offended or flattered. He decided on a cocktail of the two, as was usually the case when it came to his ornery flatmate.

"Then what in the bloody hell do you want from me?"

"Entertainment, John! I need something to do, damnit. I can't just lay here in wait for a case…not tonight. It's…not a good night for me to have nothing to do."

"Is it ever a good night for that?" he asked acerbically. Yet, despite himself, John felt his resolve failing. He'd made the mistake of allowing himself to meet Sherlock's eyes. While the man was a depthless reservoir of unpredictable intentions, John knew him well enough to recognize the unspoken 'please' behind his gaze. He could also practically taste Sherlock's breath, which was more of a factor in his submission than he cared to admit.

"Fine, fine, I'll come up with something, just give me a little space to think, will you?"

Reluctantly, Sherlock pushed himself off of John's chair and stomped back across the room. He plopped down on the sofa and raked his fingers through his hair.

"Alright," John said, combing his thoughts for inspiration. "Cluedo is a no go, as we've established one time too many, and the telly only makes you belligerent, so that's out…"

"I'm well aware of the things I don't feel like doing, thank you very much. Why do I bother—"

"Fine! What…what about bowling?"

"Out of the question."

"We could go to the cinema?"

"I'd rather you committed that murder…"

"Or a museum?"

"By killing me. Seriously, just put me out of my misery."

"How about we have a bloody picnic, then?"

"It's dark out, John. I know your powers of deduction are considerably inferior to my own, but surely even you could—"

"Why don't you just keep insulting me for the rest of the night? You seem to be enjoying that almost as much as solving a case." John rubbed his face in his palms and stood from his chair, feeling a twinge of pain in his bad leg.

"You're on your own, Sherlock. I'm going to the pub," he announced, walking to his coat with an almost unperceivable limp in his step.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping up from the sofa. "You're a genius!"

John dropped his coat on the floor and turned slowly to face Sherlock, who was bounding towards him.

"I'm…I'm a what?"

Sherlock took John by the shoulders.

"A genius!" He kissed John on the cheek and shook him. John's ears flushed pink.

"Um…you do know who you're talking to, right? Just a moment ago I was 'considerably inferior' to your massive intell-"

"Don't you see? We'll go to a pub together. It's the perfect thing to distract me."

John was flabbergasted.

"You, Sherlock Holmes, want to go to a pub…with me?"

"Of course, John. Do catch on, will you? Just think of it, John. Ohhh, it's perfect." Sherlock bent down, picked up the fallen coat, and held it open for him to slide into. Slowly, for he still hadn't fully absorbed what was happening, John pushed his arm into the coat sleeve. Sherlock guided his other arm, and helped him shrug it onto his shoulders. John thought for a quick moment of how much he liked when Sherlock helped him put his coat on, but he was allotted little time to savor the sentiment as Sherlock pushed past him to retrieve his own coat.

"Let's go." 

John mouthed soundlessly. "But…erm," was all he managed before Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled him down the stairs and out the door.

"Sherlock, wait!" Sherlock just kept dragging him.

"Sherlock!" Still nothing.

"SHERLOCK!" John yanked on Sherlock's hand, pulling him, stumbling, into his chest.

"Oh, what is it, John?"

"You…you…" John stammered, attempting to compose himself, but forgetting what he was going to say. Sherlock had been far too close to him for one evening, particularly at this moment. John swallowed hard on the lump in his throat. "You don't even know where you're going. For once in this friendship, will you let me lead the bloody way?"

Sherlock released John's hand and straightened up, adjusting the lapels of his coat.

"You're going the wrong way," John continued, turning.

"No I'm not."

John sighed and let his hands flop to his sides.

"You don't even know what pub I go to."

"You go to The Last Drop on Grassmarket Avenue, a seven minute walk from here."

John turned back and stared at Sherlock, vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open.

"How did you—"

"Do you really want to know, or do you want to just let me take you the expedient way?"

"So no go on me leading the way for the first time, then?" John asked with what he hoped were his best 'you've made me sad and you don't care' eyes.

"If you use that look on me too many times it will lose its effect. I suggest you reserve it for more appropriate circumstances."

John blinked. There was no getting away with anything with him. Sherlock turned on his heel and continued walking, leaving John to stumble after him.

"Wait! I don't do a 'look'!" But Sherlock was striding with those long legs of his down the sidewalk and it took all of John's breath to keep up. He silently cursed their height difference.

Sherlock guided them through meandering alleyways, across the lot behind the corner store, and down a side street which John had no idea was there. When they emerged, they were standing a few paces from The Last Drop pub. The familiar red wood paneling of the building, along with the ominous metal noose hanging above the door was an oddly comforting visual for John. He'd retreated to this pub for a pint and chips on more than one of Sherlock's "off" days. It was unusual to have the consulting detective come with him, but he wasn't exactly displeased.

"Ah, see?" Sherlock held out his phone to John. "Seven minutes exactly."

"You timed it?"  Sherlock looked down at him as though there was nothing unusual in the world about it. "Forget it, let's just go inside."

As John pushed open the old, wooden door of the pub with Sherlock close behind him, the smell of ale, cooked potatoes, and aged plaster washed over him. He weaved between tables, all with bottles at their center that held dripping candlesticks, and made his way to his favorite spot: a small table, flush with the bay windows of the side of the pub.

"How's this?" he asked Sherlock as he took his coat off and draped it over the back of his chair. Sherlock nodded curtly and took his seat. He steepled his fingers and pressed them against his mouth, elbows on the table, and his eyes began darting around the room.

"What can I get you to drink?" John asked, trying to ignore Sherlock's apparent room scan. "The first round's on me, but don't get used to it."

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"But…but you have to have something. Why else would you go to a pub?" John was starting to feel skeptical about the evening's progression. Sherlock had to have some hidden agenda to compel him to go to pub with John, if drinking and relaxing weren't part of his plan, not that relaxing was ever a part of his plan.

"Fine, get me a gin and tonic." John blinked, not expecting him to concede so readily. Perhaps he'd been too quick to abandon hope. "I want Hendrick's, nothing else will do, with four ice cubes and bottled tonic, not the piss water they serve out of the fountain. And no lime. It's cucumber or nothing."

Perhaps not.

John left their table and approached the bar, running over Sherlock's instructions in his head. By the time he managed to order the elaborate gin and tonic, he decided to get the same for himself and make it easier on the bartender. As his drinks were being prepared, John risked a look back at Sherlock. He hadn't removed his coat yet, and was still looking about the pub at its dozen patrons, no doubt ascertaining their life stories from the lint on their sleeves. While John, as always, was impressed by Sherlock's ability to deduce information from those around him, he didn't want this obsession to rule their evening. He'd actually managed to get him, _Sherlock Holmes_ , to go to his favorite pub with him, and he wasn't about to let the opportunity slip through his fingers.

The bartender placed the two gin and tonics on the bartop, pulling his focus away from Sherlock.

"Can I also have two tequila shots? Best tequila you have," he ordered without thinking.`

"Is Patron alright?"

"That'll be fine."

Sherlock was going to do a shot with his flatmate and there was nothing he could do about it. Of course, John reminded himself, there were plenty of things Sherlock could do about it, the least of which being throwing tequila in his face. .

"You want to start a tab?" asked the scruffy-looking bartender.

"Sure," John replied, optimistic.

"I'll bring the shots, a couple limes, and salt to your table for you in a minute, then.."

John nodded and picked up the gin and tonics, careful not to spill a drop as he went back to their table. When he placed Sherlock's drink in front of him and took his seat, he saw a look of approval flash on Sherlock's face before it quickly disappeared.

"I…uh…," John began. "I got us a present." Sherlock's eyes suddenly stopped flitting back and forth, and focused on John. He felt a shiver zip through him.

"A present?"

"Yup." As if on cue the bartender came to their table, a tray in his hand.

"Here you are," he said as he placed the two tequila shots on the dark, wooden table along with a plate of limes and a salt shaker. "Enjoy."

"This is your present," Sherlock asserted.

"Do…ehem…do you like it?" A silence fell between them that, to John, seemed to linger on into centuries.

"How did you discern that I like tequila?"

John exhaled, not bothering to conceal his relief. It wasn't as if Sherlock wouldn't notice it even if he tried.

"I didn't. I just…I just really think we should get smashed tonight." And there it was.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows but didn't speak.

"You've had a rough day, and I've had a rough day because you've had a rough day, so…let's just get pissed. We've never gone drinking together before. It should probably be fun…I think," John added.

Sherlock eyed John, leaning back in his chair.

"Well? What do you say?" John persisted, swallowing hard.  He was beginning to wonder if this was going to go down as one of his more idiotic ideas.

Sherlock took each of his lapels in his hands and pulled the coat off his shoulders, letting it rest on the back of his chair.

"A drinking contest, then."

"Does everything have to be a competition with you?"

"Worried you can't hold up?"

"Not for a second." John picked up his lime and rubbed it on the space between his right thumb and forefinger. He waited for Sherlock to be done with the salt before shaking it onto the moist skin of his hand. Picking up the limes, they clutched their respective shotglasses.

"What shall we toast to?" Sherlock asked, looking vaguely impressed at John's tequila shot-taking skills.

"To our first night out."

"This isn't our first night out."

"Well, we're out together and it's not just for a case, and we're drinking with each other for the first time. So, to that then," John explained, holding up his shotglass. Sherlock clinked his own against John's and, together, they licked the salt from their hands, breathed deep into their lungs, poured the tequila down their throats, and bit the limes between their teeth. John felt the warmth of the liquor as it cascaded into his chest. It was oddly comforting, but he didn't want to enjoy it too much. Harry always made her way into his thoughts when he drank.

"Don't worry about your sister. You're nothing like her," Sherlock stated as thought it was an afterthought. His voice was slightly husky from the tequila.

"I know I'm not," John responded, perhaps affirming it to himself more than Sherlock. A brief silence fell between the two of them as they let the shots settle in their bellies.

"Care for another?"

"Oh God, yes," John answered. Sherlock sprang from his chair and hopped to the bar. He was back in a few seconds, clapping his hands together after he took his seat again.

"Bartender will be here in a few. Have you tried the gin and tonic yet? I assume you've never had one quite like it before."

"No, I haven't. I didn't know you could put cucumber in a g and t."

"You couldn't put in anything else."

John smiled, pinching the straw of his cocktail and bringing it to his lips.

"Always so certain of yourself, aren't you?" John dragged the liquid up his straw, letting the piney, cool concoction wash down his throat.

"About everything, yes. Though I must say, you perplex me at times."

John choked on the sip he'd taken, coughing and sputtering. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

"You alright?" he asked in a disingenuous tone.

"Good cocktail," John managed, attempting to clear his throat.

"It is, when you aren't choking on it." Sherlock took a sip of his own gin and tonic. "I didn't know you were such a lightweight."

"I'm not! It just…you said…wrong pipe."

"Care to prove it?" Sherlock asked, eyes indicating to the bartender who was now approaching their table with his tray.

"Two more shots for you, gentlemen," the bartender said, placing the shotglasses and additional limes in front of them before heading back to the bar.

After they'd swiftly repeated their pre-shot-taking routine, they lifted their glasses once more.

"To getting a new, damn-interesting case before I make myself crazy," Sherlock stated.

"I can certainly toast to that, since you'll be taking me down with you."

After they'd swallowed their shots, and John had shaken the initial shiver of it from himself, they returned to their cocktails.

"Why didn't we ever do this before?" pondered John.

"I don't recall you ever asking."

"Well, of course not."

"'Of course?' Why, 'of course'?"

"You just…I just assumed you wouldn't want to."

"Let's try not to make assumptions in the future then, especially without sufficient data."

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He'd have formed a better argument for himself if he wasn't starting to feel a pleasant buzz behind his eyes. He watched Sherlock take an impressive swig of his gin and tonic.

"Why do I perplex you?" John asked bravely. Damn that tequila.

"Drink your drink," he replied, as if that settled it.

"And you drink yours."

Sherlock glared at him sardonically and pointed at his cup, which was almost empty while John's was about half way there. John puffed up his chest and took up his cocktail. While there was hardly a game or contest in which Sherlock didn't destroy him, he'd be damned if he let drinking be one of them. He'd certainly had more practice than Sherlock, not to mention the consulting detective's questionable eating habits. John downed his gin and tonic in two big gulps, before slamming his cup on the table.

"The game, Mr. Holmes, is on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any reviews are treasured, adored, and mollycoddled. I love them like John loves Jam.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the very least I hope that my tequila shot-taking instructions are thorough and edifying. It seems to be an illusive art form that many people don't quite grasp. Take it from this long time tequila-lover....use the lime, not your spit, to wet your hand for the salt. My mother taught me that, if you can believe it. Probably the most valuable lesson she's ever instilled in her dear daughter.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

John savored the smile that tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips.

"What shall the terms be, then?" Sherlock asked in a devious tone. An idea struck John so quickly, he wondered if Sherlock's brain power was rubbing off on him.

"How about I deduce things about the people in this pub, and if I'm wrong, I drink—"

"And if you somehow manage to guess correctly, I'm meant to drink?" John nodded. "I suppose that's agreeable, though I'm afraid the game will be far too easy for me—"

"Now, hold on, I wasn't finished yet."

Sherlock leaned forward a fraction. John caught a familiar glint of intrigue in his eye, and felt empowered to be the reason for it for once. "That was just your turn," he continued. "When it's _my_ turn, I get to ask you any question I want. If you choose to answer, and absolutely no lying allowed, I drink, and if you refuse, you drink."

Sherlock lounged back in his chair. John could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

"I won't lie," he said finally. Looking past John, he waved his hand at the bartender, then brought his eyes back to his flatmate.

"What was…?"

"I told him before to bring two more gin and tonics once these were finished."

"And this will all be going on my tab, I assume?" John sighed. He should have seen this coming.

"No, I already gave him my card."

"You…you did?" John blinked at him in disbelief.

"I figured I owed you."

"That's right, you did, but I didn't…I mean, you didn't have to do that."

"Don't be too giddy about it. We share all our money anyway."

Though that fact was true, John had never heard it or said it so frankly. It hadn't occurred to him how odd it was for two adult men to essentially have joint finances without being 'involved.' He didn't like how pleased the idea of it made him.

While John was lost in thought the bartender had stopped by and dropped off the gin and tonics Sherlock had promised.

"Are you ready to play or should I just let you continue to stare vacantly at me for the rest of the night? Not that I mind, but people are starting to suspect something, and I know how you hate that."

"What? Oh, right—I don't hate —whatever, yes, let's play," John rambled. "Who do you want me to analyze first?"

"Her," Sherlock stated, as though he'd been planning the whole thing out for days, and pointed across the pub. John turned to look at his charge. Sitting alone at a table made for four was a woman of about seventy. She had a glass of white wine in front of her that appeared to be untouched. Her clothes, a fur coat and ornate pashmina, and her elaborate costume jewelry made her seem to have stepped out of the 1940s.

"Okay, so," John began, letting the swelling hum of the liquor inside him make him brave. "She's a widow," he said as though it was a question.

"Good. And?"

"Um…she's not wealthy, but she used to be. And…well…she's probably a right bitch."

Sherlock broke into a deep, hearty laugh. John couldn't help the beaming smile that formed on his face.

"I concede," Sherlock said, taking up his new cocktail and gulping down a mouthful. John felt very pleased with himself. "She's not a widow though. Never been married, obviously. She's here to find a husband, not stare at a glass of wine in her finest attire and mourn a dead one."

"But then why did you drink?"

"Because you were right; she is a right bitch. Look at that face she's got on. You're improving, John."

"Obviously," he said through a grin.

"Your turn." Sherlock stared at him with eager eyes. John would start slow, though. Sherlock wasn't nearly drunk enough to oblige the questions he really wanted answered.

"Have you ever had a best friend before me?"

"No," Sherlock answered very fast in a flat tone.

"Have you had a friend at all?"

"Still no, and I'll ask you to drink twice, if you please."

"Why? That doesn't count as two."

"You could have just asked me the second question first and gotten an answer to both. Think it through next time. Now, drink up." John would have protested Sherlock's logic more ardently if he wasn't keen on having a couple mouthfuls of what was fast becoming his new favourite cocktail. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he swallowed, and leaned towards Sherlock.

"Alright, I'm ready. Who's next?"

"Same woman. Tell me more."

John looked back to the old spinster across the pub. Her face, as Sherlock had said, was warped into a permanent scowl, and she still had yet to touch her wine. John tried to think like Sherlock, to look where Sherlock would look. He'd spent so much time with the consulting detective, had learned his mannerisms and watched so carefully, and done his best to absorb the training he was being given.

"She's a writer…and…and I think you're wrong. She's not here to snag herself a date. She's a writer." John turned to face Sherlock, hoping for the best in his expression: approval, pride, wonder. He craved it, and silently willed the usual barrage of logic that was triggered whenever Sherlock's assessments were questioned not to come.

But Sherlock was neither pleased nor peeved. He was just staring at him, eyes revealing nothing.

"Why?" was all he said, and the word was silky and aggravating in his baritone drawl.

"Her middle finger on her right hand is stained with ink, likely from holding a fountain pen. And she's scowling like she's thinking. If she was looking for a date, wouldn't she at least try to smile at the older men in here? But no, she's been predominantly focused on that bickering young couple over there." John pointed to a corner of the pub across the room where a man and woman were engaged in a stern chat.

Sherlock said nothing, but picked up his glass, filled his whole mouth with liquid, and swallowed it down, hard.

"Was I impressive? Did I prove you wrong?"

"You've been listening," Sherlock said with a bit of rasp in his voice.

"I always listen."

"I know," Sherlock replied so quietly that John would have missed it if he wasn't staring at his lips. "But no, you didn't prove anything wrong. Of course I'm going to employ tactics of misdirection. Did you really think I wouldn't notice the ink stains? We are playing a game, John, and I do intend to win."

John grumbled and shook his head. "Fine, fine. My turn." John took a moment to appraise how affected Sherlock was by the liquor before selecting his question. His mental state was as acute as ever, but that was to be expected. The only sign he could find that Sherlock was feeling anything at all, was that his usually sharp grey-blue eyes had softened in the slightest. It was a change perceivable only to him, or at least he liked to think so.

John, on the other hand, was buzzed, especially because he hadn't eaten anything since lunch time. Still, Sherlock hadn't touched food since the poppy seed muffin John had force-fed him early that morning. Sometimes John wondered how Sherlock had even survived before he came along.

John was feeling loose, and slightly giddy, and the night was going so well that he opted for a bit of bravery again.

"Why do I perplex you?"

Sherlock peered at him through half-lidded eyes. John did he best to meet his gaze, but it felt a little too much like Sherlock was dissecting his thoughts. Just before John was going to look away, however, Sherlock lifted his glass and took a large swig.

"Oh, come on! Answer the question."

"You set the terms, John, not me." John was starting to resent Sherlock's being right all the time.

"Looks like you're going to need another drink soon. Not me, though. I probably won't for the rest of the night at this rate. This game is far too easy. I'm getting thirsty over here."

"You're taunting me."

"Your powers of deduction never cease to amaze."

"You should know by now that such a heavy-handed trick won't work on me."

"Won't it?" Now John was just asking for it.

"Fine. Tell me what the corner couple is arguing about then, if you're so bloody clever. Perhaps Lestrade should just have you take over as consulting detective, and I can follow you around."

"Oh yes, I can see what little effect tricks have on you. Well demonstrated, Sherlock. You've sure convinced me now."

"The couple," Sherlock said through clenched teeth. John sighed.

"Right. You want me to say what they're fighting about?" Sherlock just kept glaring at him in reply. As John eyed the young pair, evidently not having the best of nights, he hoped that no one could look at him and Sherlock, sitting there scowling at each other, and think the same thing. Perhaps he'd pushed too many of his flatmate's buttons. He didn't care in the slightest who won some stupid drinking contest. He wasn't even sure how you could win one; first to get alcohol poisoning and text an ex-girlfriend loses? No. Him and Sherlock were going to look like a happy couple damnit, even if they weren't actually a couple.

"Alright, I've got it," he said in mock arrogance, weaving his fingers together on the table. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

"She's secretly a Nazi, and he's mad because she burned his collection of 'Twilight' books."

"Your, ehem…your evidence?" said Sherlock in a magnificent effort at a serious tone, though John did not fail to catch the minuscule twitch at the side of his lips.

"Well, she's Arian, and she's rubbing her knees like she's been goose-stepping all afternoon. And he just looks like a wanker."

Try as he clearly was to fight it, a grin broke through Sherlock's stoic expression. John started giggling uncontrollably at the sight of it, and Sherlock joined in. In unison, they reached for their glasses, toasted, and drank.

"Alright, alright. Your turn."

"Sherlock, we really don't have to keep playing. We can just talk like normal people. It was a stupid idea."

"Normal is boring. And I like the game, so there's no way it could be stupid. Ask your question."

"Oh," John murmured, looking down at his hands and smiling. "Um…my question…right. Can we get another shot first?"

"Obviously."

By the time Sherlock had gone to the bar, acquired their shots, and brought them back to the table, John had thought of his next question.

"To fending off boredom!" Sherlock declared, taking his seat and raising his shotglass.

"Cheers to that," John affirmed. The third shot went down much easier than the previous two, which, to John, could only mean one thing: he was getting drunk. And unless Sherlock was some kind of superhuman, which wasn't out of the question, he had to be feeling something too.

"Your question, John. Be quick about it. We have two more gin and tonics coming our way."

John hadn't realized how low their current drinks were running until Sherlock mentioned the next round. No wonder he was feeling loopy.

"Why me?" he asked without thinking.

"Why you? What do you mean? Elaborate."

"Why did you choose me for a flatmate? I could never figure out why you would want to live with someone else period, but why would you choose me of all people?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. If John hadn't been viewing this reaction through his current tequila haze, he would have felt awkward. As it was, he just felt impatient.

"Answer or drink, Sherlock."

"Fine. I needed an assistant to help with the more mundane aspects of case work."

"That doesn't answer my question. Anyone could have done that for you: Molly, Mrs. Hudson, one of your homeless street militia. But you picked me, a complete stranger. Why?" The words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush. Sherlock was staring at him, and try as he might to read the thoughts behind his piercing eyes, it was of no use. Sherlock reached out and took up his gin and tonic, bringing the lip of the glass to his mouth. John exhaled, deflated, letting his shoulders sag as Sherlock took a sip.

"I'm going to answer you. I just wanted a drink first." John blinked at him, and braced on his elbows. "You're an army doctor, so I knew you wouldn't be squeamish or fickle. I needed a trained eye. You had a psychosomatic limp, which fascinated me, and I knew you wouldn't badger me about chatting, and etiquette, and 'sharing my feelings,' and all that dull ordinary-person nonsense. You appreciated what I could do, understood the craft of it without getting offended. So no, none of those other people would do. You were exactly what I was looking for, and I knew it the moment you stepped into the lab at St. Barts." He reached forward and pushed John's drink towards him. "My turn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your reviews are my 7% solution.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You readers make me wanna go round and round the garden like a teddy bear.

John was struck with the sudden inability to speak, which was inconvenient because he knew that later, upon thinking back on what Sherlock had told him, he would come up with innumerable things to wish he had said. Sherlock seemed to ignore him, which was quite the achievement because John was fairly sure his expression resembled that of a floundering carp.

"I want you to analyze me."

Surprise brought John's voice back to him.

"Analyze you? What do you—"

"Yes, and seriously, as you did with the old woman. I've taught you well enough, and I want to know what you can deduce by examining me. I'm bored with always being the one to see without knowing."

"But…I do know you. Isn't that cheating?"

"Don't be oblivious. No one knows me."

John felt like he'd been dowsed in cold water. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, looking down into his drink. He could sense Sherlock's eyes on him, frisking his thoughts, and he despised it. Could the man leave his mind unread for once in their friendship?

"I've hurt your feelings," he heard Sherlock say, low and certain. John had never felt so foolish. To think, he was feeling flattered only moments before. "I keep my true self hidden from everyone, not just you. This can't be news to you. That is just how it has to be, John." Sherlock's words, so cold and final, were only made worse by the truth of them. The ache swelling in John's chest sank deeper, and he tried to quell it with a hefty sip of his cocktail, but to no avail. Sherlock was right; this wasn't news to him. Of every mystery he'd seen, the greatest of all was the man solving them at his side.

"Why? I thought we were-."

"We are. And you do know me better than anyone, even my own brother."

"You hate your brother."

"Regardless, it doesn't change the fact that-"

"It's fine," John said, wanting desperately to change the subject, and for Sherlock to tear his gaze away. "I'm not 'oblivious.'"

"John."

Despite his resolve, John had to look up and meet Sherlock's eyes, compelled by some deep-seeded instinct.

"Yeah," he managed, voice shaking on the word. Sometimes looking into Sherlock's eyes, especially from such close proximity, was like being hypnotized. It felt impossible to look away, like he was sinking into the blue and the flecks of grey.

"Play the game." His words held the no-nonsense, unfeeling simplicity that John had come to expect from his friend, but there was a gentle smile on his lips and softness in his gaze that somehow placated John.

"Are you sure you want me to do this?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine." John took a deep breath, gathering himself, before speaking. "You…well…based on appearances, you're a bit of a paradox, really. You're always well-dressed and put-together, and it seems like you plan your outfits to look as dark and mysterious as possible. It's that 'turned-up-collar cheekbone compulsion' I've mentioned. But then there are your hands."

"My hands?" John nodded from Sherlock to the table top. Sherlock, obeying, placed his hands in front of John, who took them in his own and began examining.

"It's like you don't notice, which is abnormal because you're usually aware of every little detail in everything. Your hands are covered in acid burns and discoloration from all your bloody experiments. See? It would drive me mental." Sherlock pulled his hands out of John's palms and clasped his drink. "So, from this I would gather that, as with your 'hard drive,' you only focus on aspects of your appearance that you deem important. Which is just silly, and I wish you would take better care of-"

"Yes, yes, that's enough. I'm drinking, alright, look at me drinking," Sherlock said, voice muffled in his glass as he brought it to his mouth.

"But I have more."

"Well, don't use it all in one go. My drink is empty now anyway." Sherlock waved at the bartender, signaling that they were ready for another. "Oh, lovely. He's made them already."

After the bartender dropped off their fresh cocktails and took away the empty glasses, Sherlock lounged in his chair and draped his arm over the back.

"Remind me to leave him a generous tip."

"But you never tip."

"That's right, I don't, do I?"

John sighed and took a long drag on his straw.

"It's your turn," Sherlock reminded him.

"So, what I said was spot-on?"

"I drank, didn't I?"

"I just wanted to hear you say it," John said, smirking.

"You are a master detective, infinitely perceptive and wise in your godly, logistical ways, and I'm not even worthy to sniff the shoe of your genius."

"A simple 'yes' would have sufficed, but—"

"Ask your damn question."

John sipped on his gin and tonic through a grin, collecting his thoughts before he spoke. He didn't want to waste any questions, and it wasn't as though he was going to get another opportunity as good as this one.

"Have you ever been in a relationship? With a man or a woman?"

"Well I certainly haven't been in one with a Pomeranian."

"You know what I mean."

"You and Mrs. Hudson have been speculating about this for a while, I'm sure," Sherlock grumbled. "It's such an irrelevant piece of information."

"If it's so irrelevant why can't you just answer me?" Sherlock, once again, set his prying gaze on John. "I'm only curious," John added, feeling very exposed, and doing everything in his power to look at something other than the consulting detective.

"How about I strike a deal with you? I'm not going to answer your question…" John groaned. "…but I would like you to use these new, surprisingly above-average powers of deduction you've demonstrated to ascertain the answer yourself. Let's call it an experiment. I will, of course, drink or not drink depending on the accuracy of your analysis. Then you get an answer to your pointless query if you earn it, and I don't have to respond to you in a typical sense."

"Do you really believe that after everything I've…that we've been through together, I haven't earned it?" John, perhaps due to the alcohol's influence, was becoming agitated. Shouldn't he be able to ask his best friend anything he wanted and get straight answers back without having to fight for them? He could feel the buffer between his thoughts and his mouth slipping.

"I'm confident that if you simply think and observe, you will –"

"How? You said it yourself, Sherlock. No one knows you. If I could figure out your sexual history just by looking at you, don't you think I would have done it by now?" John could feel his cheeks flushing with heat, his heart pounding in his chest.

"You're frustrated with me."

"Yes…no, sorry, I…I'm not," John stammered, shaking his head as his irritation was swiftly replaced with regret.

"You're still hurt from what I said earlier."

"Of course not. I was just saying—"

"You're a terrible liar, John."

"Honestly, please, forget it. I really don't care."

Sherlock just stared at him, slowly sliding his ring finger across his plump bottom lip in thought.

"I'm…I'm going to the loo. I'll play the turn when I get back." John pushed back his chair and scrambled to his feet clumsily. "And I swear, I'm not upset," he added before walking off towards the toilets. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on his back, nearly causing him to slam into a table on his way.

As soon as the door of the toilets shut behind him, John rubbed his face in his hands, resisting the urge to slap himself. Things had been going well. Why did he have to ruin it by getting wound up from a stupid game? And it just had to be over the 'relationship question,' of all things. He prayed that they wouldn't have a repeat of the 'married to my work' incident from their first dinner at Angelo's. He cringed at the memory.

After relieving himself and washing his hands, John took a deep breath and attempted to assemble his thoughts. He'd need to prepare if he wanted to return to their conversation with any shred of dignity. Yet, just as he was putting the finishing touches on a plan to sit, drink, accept his failure on the turn, and then use any means necessary to change the subject, he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket. He wiped his moist hand on the side of his jeans, and removed the phone.

_The answer to your question is 'no,' on either account. Drink when you return. SH_

John stared at the text message. He swallowed hard, reading the words over and over, trying to make sense of his flatmate's bizarre change of tune. He considered replying, but, aside from being unable to think of a response, decided it was best to brave the return to his table.

As he pushed open the door, he was relieved to find that Sherlock's eyes were not on him, but rather had resumed skimming about the room. He made his way towards him, attempting to walk as casually as possible. When he reached him, he sat carefully into his chair, resisting the sway of the alcohol in his veins, and placed his phone on the table. Sherlock's eyes swiveled to look at him.

Slowly, and very purposefully, John reached forward, took up his cocktail, and downed almost half the glass. After he swallowed, a silence fell between the flatmates. Sherlock stared at him, expression indiscernible, while John let the drink settle in his belly.

"You didn't have to do that, you know," John finally managed, volume just above a whisper.

"Obviously."

"So, why did you?"

"Oh no, it's my turn now. In your words, 'I'm getting thirsty over here.'"

"You're impossible, you know that?"

"I know everything." John snorted, and Sherlock glared at him. "You said you had more."

"Huh?"

"More, you said you had more, when you were analyzing me. I'm getting impatient."

"What else is new?"

"Fine, then, why don't I analyze you instead?"

"No, no, absolutely not. I'll do it, alright? God." Sherlock lifted his eyebrows expectedly. "You said once, when Anderson called you a psychopath, that you're not, you're a sociopath." Sherlock's face scrunched up at the mention of Anderson's name. "But I don't think you are. I think you're blunt, and abnormal, and brilliant, and a bit of an annoying dick, really, but I don't think you're a sociopath."

"I'm flattered."

"I'm not trying to flatter you. I'm trying to tell you that you're wrong."

"And do you have any evidence to support this deduction, or is this just your hopeless hero worship complex rearing its deranged head again?"

"I think you've just given me all the proof in the world that you're an annoying dick, but in terms of the sociopath thing…you're my friend, and not just because it's beneficial to you, but because I think you need company. You are insensitive to other people's pain when it isn't relevant to your work, but you don't wish pain on people as a sociopath would. You're blunt, but not cruel, unless you've been provoked or you're being oblivious, and you are, let me tell you, _extremely_ oblivious to some things. You are manipulative, but you only use it as a means to solve your puzzles. And those puzzles revolve around discovering people's killers, and even saving people's lives. Why would a sociopath care about that? But most importantly, you'd have to be incapable of love to be a sociopath."

"And you don't think I am?"

John's throat tightened. "You love your work."

"That counts, does it?"

"You're not incapable of love."

"I did say 'high-functioning' if you care to remember."

"If you're capable of love, you are not a sociopath." When Sherlock didn't reply, John began to feel the familiar sting of regret again. He frowned at his drink, blaming its contents for making him loose, and foolish, and honest. Dread for Sherlock's response began to swell within him. Even if he was wrong about Sherlock, he was desperate for the consulting detective not to prove it.

"You've given this a lot of thought," Sherlock said.

"I'm just playing the game." John prayed that would be enough to end the conversation, but he knew his flatmate better than that.

"You expect a lot of me."

"Too much?" John asked, looking up from his drink.

"Probably." Sherlock half-smiled at John, and, despite the fact that he appeared to be physically pained from the effort, John felt warm at the sight. "So, I'm the oblivious one now, am I?"

"To some things, yes," John replied, attempting to sound confident.

"One could argue that your optimistic assessment of me is rather oblivious."

"Quite the opposite, actually."

"Oh really? You're positive you didn't overlook certain negative character attributes of mine simply because they conflict with your theory?"

"Your negative attributes are rather difficult to ignore." John ran his eyes up and down Sherlock's body suggestively, fighting back a grin. Sherlock picked up his drink and took a quick sip from its straw. "So you're admitting I'm right," John said a bit giddily, pointing to Sherlock's glass.

"It was a little sip."

"So I was a little right! What part?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"That's rare," John huffed, stealing a sip of his own drink. He was beginning to feel light-headed, whether from the alcohol or the conversation, he wasn't sure.

"As I said, you perplex me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your reviews are like a triple homicide in a locked room on a boring winter's day. Brilliant.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case any of you were wondering, The Last Drop pub actually exists. While it is true that it's on Grassmarket Avenue and has a metal noose hanging above the doorway, it is actually located in Edinburgh, Scotland (the city that holds my heart eternally), not London. I'd highly recommend popping in if you're in the area. There's no better place to write, enjoy a pint, and people-watch, in the city where Sir Conan Doyle dwelled so many years ago.

"As I said, you perplex me."

"I don't suppose if I asked you why again you'd answer me," John said, staring into the flame of their table's candle.

"You could, theoretically, use your turn and find out. What is it they call attempting the same thing over and over again expecting a different result?"

"'Being friends with Sherlock Holmes,' I believe."

"Oh, right, yes. And that's the official psychiatric terminology, I expect," Sherlock smirked, running his finger over a tumbling drip of candle wax, thwarting its journey down the shaft of the old bottle holding it. John admiring the subtle grace of Sherlock's digits as he played with the wax between his finger tips. If he allowed himself to indulge the erotic undertones of the image, he would have to start asking himself some very difficult questions. He buried the thought in a section of his mind reserved for "things it's best not to think about," noting, with a frown, that it was becoming awfully crowded in there.

"They could write a book on all the psychiatric terminology invented just to classify you," John said, wrangling his thoughts away from candle wax and fingertips.

"Perhaps you should do it, considering you have so many theories on the complexities of my antisocial personality disorder." Sherlock's eyes slid to John, but before he could catch the expression behind them, they were focusing back on the candle wax.

"Which brings me to my next question," John said, shifting in his chair. Sherlock flicked the wax off his fingers and turned his eyes towards John. His face, relaxed and blank for a moment, twitched and changed. John recognized the familiar transformation all too easily. Sherlock had figured something out.

"You're drunk," he said, leaning onto one elbow and pointing at John's face like he was miming a gun with his hand.

"How could you tell?" John chuckled awkwardly, feeling heat in the tips of his ears. As soon as Sherlock started speaking he regretted the question.

"The first thing I noticed was the onset of mild ataxia when you stumbled rising from your seat to escape to the toilets, but now your eyes are glassy, more lidded than usual, while your cheeks and ears are flush and there's a slight tremor in your hands, but I doubt it's caused from inverted PTSD as it usually is, since you're comfortable with me, so more likely it results from the elevated ethanol levels in your blood. Not to mention the atypical inhibition you exhibited by not only pointing out faults in my reasoning, a bold move for anyone to make, especially you, but in the sentimental and hopelessly optimistic analysis of my sociopathic self-diagnosis."

During Sherlock's rant of deductions, John had balled his hands together in front of his mouth, elbows braced on the tabletop, and furrowed his brow. When Sherlock was finished, finger still pointing in John's face, a moment of silence settled between them. It hung over them like a fog before being broken by John.

"You're drunk too," he declared, jutting his index fingers out towards Sherlock. For a brief moment, John felt triumphant. Sherlock had turned his cold, all-seeing eye upon him, and John had turned his right back. He knew he was right, no matter how much Sherlock would likely deny it. Sherlock's eyes, like John's, were glassy and sleepy, and his deductions, while brilliant as they always were, would have been made earlier had he been sober. Also, partly due to the fact that John made a hobby out of watching Sherlock's mouth, he'd noticed the consonants Sherlock had lingered on a little too long. It was too close to a slur to be ignored. His victory was short-lived, however.

"Obviously," Sherlock sighed with petulance. John was piqued, huffing as Sherlock relaxed into his seat.

"What, ' _obviously_ '?"

"I've had six drinks in a short period of time, three of them shots, and these are generous gin and tonics, so of course I'm inebriated. Wasn't that the point of this little outing?"

"Yes, but…but you acted like the realization that I'm getting pissed was some kind of epiphany."

"I thought you had a higher tolerance than that," Sherlock taunted, taking a pronounced sip of his glass. "You do find occasion to drink far more often than I do. I assumed your threshold was more… _refined_. My chances of winning this little competition are looking better by the minute."

"I think you're just getting slow," John retorted. Sherlock's expression contorted into proper agitation. John had utilized one of his most diabolical insults on Sherlock, and he would have felt guilty if he hadn't been drinking.

"Then ask your question, John. You're the one holding up the game."

"Are you gay?" The words rolled out of John's mouth before he knew what they were.

"That wasn't what you were planning on asking," Sherlock replied, unflinching.

"Irrelevant. Answer or drink. You're boring me," John mocked in his best impression of Sherlock's smarmy drawl. He swigged his gin and tonic, hoping it would tie back the portion of his brain that was protesting this sudden, liquor-induced gall.

"If by 'gay,' you mean attracted to men?"

"That is typically what 'gay' means. I certainly wasn't asking you if you were happy, because I already know the answer to that one." John watched Sherlock's temple twitch as he clenched his jaw.

"I believe I already told you I'm married to my work."

"But who are you _attracted_ to? Men or women? Or both?" John started tapping his fingers on the wooden tabletop theatrically.

"And why should that matter to you?"

"I'm the one asking the questions. You can drink, or answer. Either way I don't care," John said, folding his arm over the back of his chair in what he hoped was a casual pose.

"I'm not attracted to either."

"Really?  Surely you're attracted to something..."

"I'm attracted to intrigue, and cleverness, mystery, and complexity. If there is a person who embodies those attributes, then I suppose I'm theoretically attracted to them. Gender is an irrelevant detail. Yet, this is assuming I didn't have my work. My work is everything to me. I abide no distractions."

"So you're saying that I'm not a distraction?"

"You're quite the opposite."

"Oh. Right, good…that's just…great." Sherlock eyed him, a faint smirk pulling at his lips.

"Do I detect a hint of disappointment? Am I to assume you _want_ to be a distraction?"

"No, no…I…that's not what I meant. I'm saying great…it's great. I wouldn't want to be a…hindrance."

For a moment John was extremely grateful to be able to blame the rising blush in his cheeks on the alcohol. He felt dizzy, only it seemed concentrated in his chest rather than his head, an odd sensation, and one he wasn't used to feeling.

"I suppose I'd better drink then," he mumbled, catching his straw between his teeth.

"I tire of this game," Sherlock whined, and John couldn't hold back the borderline guffaw that erupted from his throat.

"Now you say it!"

"I meant that the rules need refining. There are questions I have for you now."

"How can you?" John said, through his continued chuckles. "You figure out every detail about everyone with little more than a glance." _Well, perhaps not everything_ , John thought, carding his fingers through the short hair on the back of his head.

"There are aspects of your personality that defy logic, and I find myself befuddled by them. Perhaps I'm too close to the subject."

"Does this mean you're going to answer the 'perplex me' question?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock ignored him.

"You thrive on so-called 'life or death' situations, crave the excitement of solving cases and traipsing through the underbelly of London with me, as though peril fuels your body and mind. This I understand for, as you know, I function in much the same manner. Yet, the other side of you forms a paradox I simply cannot comprehend. You seek the mundane, the _normal_ as eagerly as you seek the extraordinary. You insist on holding a day job in the most lacklustre of settings, and collect a series of useless relationships with the most insipid kinds of women, only to cut ties before any kind of commitment is made, as though their existence provides some form of justification for you. Why? It's maddeningly illogical."

"I'm sorry, is the question you're asking me 'why are you so boring?'"

"Not quite. You aren't boring in the least, so why do insist on doing boring things and associating with boring people?"

John opened his mouth to answer but shut it quickly. Even is his drunken haze he had the good sense to choose his words with care.

"I need a break sometimes," he said quietly.

"A break from what?" John pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing his eyes closed. "From me?"

"No…well, yes…I don't know. I don't want to answer. I'll drink instead," John said, taking up his cocktail.

Just as John touched the glass to his lips Sherlock reached out and clasped his wrist with warm, slender fingers. John's eyes darted up to meet his.

"You can't half-answer and then decline."

"Why not?" John demanded, the lip of the glass still against his mouth.

"Those are the rules."

"What rules?" John huffed, putting his glass back on the table. Sherlock didn't release his wrist. "We didn't say anything about that."

"We said the options were to 'answer or drink.' It's black and white, John. You can't dabble in the middle ground for your convenience."

"Fine! Whatever, I'll answer." John swallowed, and added, softly, "You can let go of my hand now."

Sherlock unraveled his fingers from John's wrist, leaving the skin beneath them bereft of his warmth.

"Well?' Sherlock prodded, pressing his fingertips together against his mouth.

"Sometimes it's hard to stay grounded if I spend too much time with you. I swear, you live on another planet."

"But why do you want to stay 'grounded?'" Sherlock had a rare glint his eye that took John aback. He looked captivated.

"I…you…I feel like I'm being interrogated," he laughed. Sherlock's eyes remained locked on him, expression set and unchanging. John swallowed. "Right. Well, I guess there are things I need that I don't get when I'm…you know-"

"On my planet?"

"Right."

"Is this some underhanded way of reprimanding me for the solar system thing again? Because I don't see how knowledge of trivial astronomical facts could—"

"What? No! Although knowing that the earth orbits the sun is hardly triv—sorry, no, it's not about that at all." John couldn't help smiling to himself. "You _must_ be drunk if you think—"

"Then what is it? Because, frankly, I'm sick of you letting these tedious excursions into 'normality' interfere with the work. You aren't a distraction at all, but these…these _women_ you let—"

"Are you kidding me, Sherlock?" John interrupted, anger sparking inside him. "You don't get to dictate whether or not I have a job, and you _certainly_ don't get any say in the women I choose to date."

"Why not?"

"Why _not_? Because…because you…because it's none of your business," John sputtered, curling his hands into fists on his thighs.

"We're colleagues, best friends, and flatmates. I admit I can be ignorant of certain social intricacies, but your personal life, especially when it affects your professional one, is absolutely my 'business.'"

John only managed a few incoherent throaty noises in reply, before ruffling his fingers in his hair, and doing his best to assemble his thoughts. "You want to know why the relationships don't last, Sherlock? Because every single time you call or text or even suggest that you need me, I come running. What girlfriend could compete with that? What job would want an employee like that? You know what? Fine. You're right. I am trying to justify something. I go on dates and work this job to try to convince myself that my whole life doesn't revolve around Sherlock Holmes' every bloody whim. Thank you for illustrating exactly how pointless my effort has been."

John tried to catch his breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He watched as Sherlock leaned back in his chair and folded his legs beneath the table.

"Are you unhappy?" Sherlock asked in his deep voice, and John's anger faltered.

"No. I'm—I'm the happiest I've ever been." The words came from the core of him, ripped forth by the liquid courage in his blood. Though he expected an instant surge of regret, John instead felt a calm certainty. Sherlock's pale eyes bored into him and flickered with an indefinable emotion.

"You said before that you didn't need to ask me if I was happy, implying that you knew I wasn't. I want you to know that you were wrong."

"So you _are_ gay," John teased.

"Yes, I suppose I am. The gayest I've ever been," he replied with flourish, a devilish glint flashing in his eyes.

"And it's all thanks to me."

"One could say we make each other gay," Sherlock mused, looking very much like a child reveling in a dirty joke. John made a noise that was something between a sigh and a laugh. His brain was somersaulting over the absurdity of their exchange, and it took all of his resolve to fight the urge to be giddy.

"I'm sure it's been suggested," John said with a forced chuckle. His chest went tight as he felt the bit of sweat born from his anger begin to cool on his skin. Sherlock reached forward to take up his drink, but before he could lift it from the table, John took hold of his wrist.

"I think this turn deserves a shot," he said.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"I told you, Mr. Holmes, that I wanted to get pissed tonight, and that's exactly what I intend to do."

After Sherlock rose and sauntered his way to the bar, John's breath exhaled out of him in a rush. He shook his head, hoping that if he drank just enough, he'd forget this conversation by morning. An obnoxious voice in his head informed him that there wasn't enough tequila in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double entendre is like crack to me, I swear. It's a 2 million patch problem.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking of drawing a cover for my lil fic here. If you guys have any suggestions I'd love to hear them! If you don't come up with anything good, I'll just draw a huge penis as punishment. 
> 
> That's not very good incentive, is it? Damn. Foiled again.
> 
> UPDATE: Obviously I have since drawn the cover and in no way does it contain a phallus. Alas, my threat was limp (baha). I do wish I'd been clever, though, and hidden one like in the 90s version of 'The Little Mermaid' VHS cover (yes? no? tell me someone knows what I'm referring to...). Hindsight is always 20/20.

Upon his return, Sherlock placed the pair of tequila shots on each side of the table, and took his seat with admirable grace. John marveled at the cool calculation of his movements, gaze catching on the buttons being pulled taught on Sherlock's chest as he lounged back. Anyone who didn't know Sherlock as well as he did would have no idea the man was almost seven drinks deep into a bender.

"I should have guessed you'd be the most high-functioning drunk in history," John mused, plucking a lime from the plate left to them by their absurdly attentive bartender, and smearing its juices between his thumb and index finger.

"Yes, you should have. I'm high-functioning in most areas of my person, why should alcohol tolerance be any different? Of course, even I go a bit foggy after four tequila shots," Sherlock said, mirroring John's motion with his own lime before sharing the salt shaker. John watched him eye the rust-tinted liquor with a surprising hint of apprehension.

"Wait," John said, realization surging through him. "I didn't even think about it. You must hate drinking, the way it slows your mind."

"Well concluded. It is not my drug of choice. Of course, we both know what that would be." John gave him a slight nod.

"Yeah, but you're doing well." The corners of Sherlock's lips twitched into a fleeting smile. "But I can't believe you let me convince you to drink if you don't like it. I wasn't thinking…" John shook his head, which gave him the bizarre sensation that his brain was sloshing around in his skull.

"Don't be thick, John. Do you really believe you could persuade me to do something I didn't want to do?"

"Hey, now, I have my methods."

"Unfortunately none of them work," Sherlock teased.

John sighed, grazing his thumb down the side of his shot glass and catching a stray drop of tequila. He slid the finger between his lips, licking. When he looked back to Sherlock, he found the detective watching him.

"What?" John asked, the word jumbled by his thumb as he pulled it from his mouth.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied flatly.

"With you, it's never 'nothing.'" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, jaw set in its familiar intransigent fashion. "Fine, have it your way. You always do." John reached forward and held the shot glass, but kept it on the table. "Before we take this shot, tell me why you decided to come out drinking with me. I'm not sure how coherent I'll be after this one."

Sherlock exhaled and attempted to flatten a few stray, dark curls with his palm. They seemed to stick out worsein defiance, bouncing up from behind his hand. John wondered if it were possible that one's hair could reflect their personality.

"It was the least boring option." John raised his eyebrows at the poor attempt at deflection. "And…I thought it would be a good setting for some clandestine people-watching. Perhaps I'd get lucky and there'd be a murderer in the pub with us."

"Right," John said, dragging the word out into his best 'you're full of it' tone.

"And I…I suppose I also thought we could use a night out of the flat. Together."

"Really?" John scoffed, blinking in disbelief. "Alright, what's in that gin and tonic?" he asked facetiously, pretending to inspect Sherlock's drink.

"Gin and tonic water."

"No, I meant…I was…whatever. Let's just take this shot already. That is, if you're sure you want to," John added, looking up at Sherlock half through his eyelashes.

"Of course I'm sure. I wouldn't have purchased them if I wasn't sure. Patrón doesn't exactly rain from the sky."

"Unfortunately..." Sherlock made a short, throaty laugh. "It's just…you didn't seem too keen on it at first-"

"If you sensed a note of apprehension in me, it was merely do to the fact that I am, as you pointed out, feeling rather inebriated, and taking another shot craved a moment of contemplation prior to commitment." John stared down at the shot closed in his hand.

"We really don't have to do this if you don't want to. I understand that—"

"John." John immediately met his eyes, his name on Sherlock's lips holding its typical summoning power over him. "As I told you before, I'm here because I want to be, so stop fretting about it. The truth is that every once in a great, _great_ while, it's good for me to slow down a little bit. I suppose."

"Cheers to that!" John toasted, raising his shot glass. Sherlock followed suit, licking the salt from between his fingers. John caught himself staring fixedly at Sherlock's tongue as it slid against his hand. He had to remind himself that he was meant to be taking a shot, and he'd have a bit of explaining to do if Sherlock should catch him ogling the way he was. All this talk of making each other gay, and then the blasted buttons of Sherlock's shirt were doing strange things to his mind.

As soon as the tequila settled in his stomach, singeing a trail of heat in its wake, John's head whirled. He felt a tingling spread from his belly to his limbs.

"Well, that kicked me over the edge," John announced, slurring.

"Predictable."

"I have to be honest. I'm a bit worried that if I get blackout with you I'm gonna' find myself naked in some alleyway in Hackney as part of one of your twisted social experiments to prove God-knows-what." Sherlock's cheek twitched as though he were fighting back a grin.

"I promise to not take advantage of you," he vowed, laying his palm flat on his chest.

"You tried to drug my tea once, and then you locked me in a lab while I was on hallucinogens just to prove a point. You can take your promise and shove it up your-"

"Yes, yes, lessons were learned," Sherlock interrupted, waving John off with a flourish of his wrist.

"I'm just saying, I owe you one, so tread carefully. I'm a soldier, Sherlock, I can hold my liquor. Maybe it will be _me_ taking advantage of _you_ , naked in an alleyway." Sherlock raised his eyebrows. John felt his cheeks flush crimson. "Ah, that…that came out wrong."

"Did it?"

"Pretty sure." John took a sip of his gin and tonic, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. His eyelids were starting to get heavy, his vision fuzzy. He felt as though his thoughts were lolling about in his brain, things he should say mixing with things he shouldn't, rendering one indiscernible from the other.

"I wish you would eat more," he exclaimed, the words tumbling from his mind. It wasn't something he planned on saying, but he could've done a lot worse, all things considered.

"Pardon?" Sherlock seemed taken aback.

"You. I wish you would eat more."

"Um…"

"And you don't get enough sleep."

"Anything else, mummy?" 

"No. Just…"

"Where did that come from?"

"It would just make me happy if you took better care of yourself, if that matters to you at all."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, and turned his head away from John, as if trying to focus on everyone in the room but him.

A long pause fell over their conversation, and John found himself sinking deeper into his chair, deflated. He had no idea what he'd been hoping to accomplish, if anything, but Sherlock's complete disregard was discouraging.

"I don't like food, and I detest sleeping," Sherlock groused.

"I know."

"And I don't understand why improving my eating and sleeping habits would make _you_ happy. It doesn't make sense."

"It just would."

"But _why_?"

"Because."

"That's not an answer." God, Sherlock was nothing if not persistent.

"I'm a doctor. I want you healthy," John offered, hoping that would be enough.

"No…no, that's not the only reason."

He watched as Sherlock's eyes fixed on him. He'd expected that. What he hadn't expected, was that the fresh alcohol in Sherlock's blood seemed to wash away some of his stoic façade, revealing the true nature of his deduction process underneath. What John saw nearly sucked the air from his lungs. He could suddenly feel the torrents of thoughts, calculations, and logic emanating from Sherlock's grey eyes in waves, plunging into John's core. For the first time, John saw Sherlock's mind: strong and beautiful, terrifying and depthless. No one, not even Mycroft, could have possibly comprehended this in Sherlock before. He felt awash with clarity, with awe, with pity that anyone could live inside such a tempest. If his epiphany had something to do with the booze in his veins, he didn't care. He was too certain for it to be an illusion. Sherlock wasn't just clever. He wasn't a computer, or a bank of information. He was a sun, burning and surging with energy, seeing all, and killing itself the brighter it shined.

"John?" Sherlock said, as though from a distance. John closed his mouth, swallowed down an ache in his throat. "John?" Sherlock asked again. "What's wrong? John?"

"I just…" was all he managed. He shut his eyes tight, which squeezed the small bit of moisture that coated them into the corners.

"Jesus, John, are you…are you… _crying_? I didn't know you wanted me to eat _that_ badly…"

"No, I am not _crying_ , damnit!" John interrupted a little too loudly, former sentiment leaving him.

"You are. I can see a tear right there," Sherlock said, jutting his finger into John's face, a mere inch from his eye.

"Am not!" John snapped back, sounding very much like an adolescent boy, as he grabbed Sherlock's hand and held it down on the table. "I was just…thinking."

"And that makes you cry, does it?"

"Oh, you're a consulting comedian now, are you?"

"Only between cases."

Sherlock used the hand John was not holding to stab a slice of cucumber from his cocktail with his straw. He used it like a skewer, bringing it to his lips and sliding it off with his teeth. John watched his temple contract as he chewed and swallowed it down. Sherlock eyed him sardonically.

"For the last time, I was not crying," John squeezed Sherlock's hand tighter under his own. "I was only thinking that I felt sorry for you. Don't worry, the delusion has passed." Sherlock jerked his hand from John's grip.

"You felt _sorry_ for me? Why would _you_ ever feel sorry for _me_?" Sherlock's brow puckered as he spat out the words.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear the tone in that," John warned.

"Answer my question."

"I don't have to answer anything. We aren't even playing the game anymore."

"So you admit that I won."

"I admit that I quit. If you need to call that a win to feel better about yourself, be my guest."

"Well, according to you, I do, seeing as you pity me so much."

"Christ, Sherlock, that's not what I said. I only meant…it must be hard," John said, biting his bottom lip.

"What is?" Sherlock's eyes were blazing.

"Dealing with _that_ ," John said, pointing across the table at Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock pressed his palm to his curls.

"My…my hair? I admit, it can be a bit unruly, but—"

"No, you bloody daft—your _mind_. I don't know how you can stand it all the time." Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again, his face scrunching in confusion.

"My mind," he stated. It wasn't a question.

"Yes. It's just…I realized…you must never get a break."

"A break from what?"

"From…thinking." It was the best way John could ever think to describe it, even if he wasn't so plastered.

"Of course not. Do you?"

"Everyone does."

"Well, _I_ don't. Abnormal, per usual. Add it to the list of reasons people call me a freak," Sherlock said, flicking grains of salt across the table in aggravation.

"I would never call you that," John said, managing to keep from slurring. Sherlock looked at him sideways.

"Obviously," he murmured, voice low and smooth.

"I have an idea."

"That must be an invigorating sensation for you."

"Toss off," John sniped. Sherlock half-smiled at him. "I'm not nearly as drunk as I could be, but I don't think I should spend much more of my money."

" _My_ money…"

" _Our_ money." Sherlock shrugged, conceding. "Why don't we finish these drinks, get another shot before we go, and then work on that bottle of wine back at the flat."

"Two more shots," Sherlock stated. John blinked at him.

"T—two? Whatever happened to 'contemplation before commitment?'" Sherlock shifted towards him.

"Afraid?" he goaded.

"You…unimaginable bastard." John watched Sherlock's face turn into a satisfied smile. Sherlock was manipulating him, and it was working. There was no way John, with all his army-bred pride, could turn down a challenge…even if it might land him in a Hackney alleyway.

Sherlock reached behind him and pulled his coat off the back of his chair, sliding his arms into the sleeves. John watched him through a narrow glare.

"Don't look so put-out, John. We both know I wouldn't have suggested it unless it was what you really wanted." The smirk on his face as he linked his scarf around his neck made John both murderous and enthralled. He pulled on his own coat, leaning down and sucking up the last of his gin and tonic through his straw. Sherlock's drink was already finished.

When John stood, pushing his chair away from him with the backs of his knees, the whole room dipped and swayed. He teetered on his heels, but managed to pull it off as little more than poor footing (or so he liked to believe), before he followed Sherlock to the bar.

"I'd like to close my tab," Sherlock informed the bartender, who nodded and smiled at him toothily. "And Dr. Watson here would like to buy us each two last tequila shots before we head out." John blinked at him, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. He found himself staggered by how cordial and charming Sherlock could be when the mood struck him, and wondered if the bartender had any idea what a bastard he was to most people. He also wondered why "Dr. Watson" sounded so damn appealing on Sherlock's lips.

He slid his card across the sticky surface of the bar top, watching the bartender as he filled four shotglasses with golden tequila. Sherlock claimed his receipt and slipped his card into his own wallet, John following suit once their new shots were tallied.

John took a deep breath as he peppered his hand with salt and took up his lime and glass.

"What are we toasting to?" he asked, ignoring the tingling of protest in the back of his throat.

"For the first, I would like to toast to me." A laugh burst out of John so suddenly, he nearly spilled his tequila.

"You want to toast to yourself?"

"Yes. I was having a bad night, and I let it turn into a good one whilst being relatively amiable to my flatmate, so that's a toast-worthy achievement for me." John's laughing faded quickly at Sherlock's words. He nodded, and for a fleeting moment felt very sober, but then they clinked their glasses together and the burn of tequila pouring down his throat swiftly rid him of the illusion. Both he and Sherlock shook their heads back and forth, faces scrunching around the limes in their mouths. They plopped the wasted limes into the empty glasses and stared at the full shots waiting for them.

"Well, no going back now," John said as he salted his hand for the second shot. "And what's the toast for this one?" He was eager to take the shot before the effects of the previous one hit and made him unwilling to do so.

"To you," Sherlock said, holding up his shotglass.

"Me? What have I done?"

"For turning my bad night into a good one," he said in his deep voice, eyes betraying a kind of softness that John had rarely seen in Sherlock, if ever.

"Cheers," John returned and they tapped their glasses together. He hesitated for just a moment before taking the shot back. It was the last thing he would remember of the night when he woke the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having so much fun it should be criminal. Like, Moriarty-level criminal. Of the consulting variety.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was surprisingly easy to write...well, comparatively....usually I'm slamming my face into the keyboard after the 600th draft. I must say, the computer-to-face personal abuse technique is never as helpful as I hope it will be. There's flaw to my method somewhere...it will take time, but I shall suss it out, so help me Godtiss!

The first thing John was aware of was that he was thirsty. Really thirsty. The second was that a dull pain was pulsing mercilessly behind his eyes. And the third, and most jarring, was that all he could smell was Sherlock. It wasn't until the latter that he forced himself into waking, prying open his swollen eyes and blinking them into focus. His headache pounded in reluctance as the blurs of shapes and earthy tones sharpened into recognition.

John was not in his bed. In fact, he wasn't even in his room. For a bewildering moment he had no idea where he was, thoughts clogged by pain and remnants of inebriation. When realization finally did hit he shot up into a sitting position, but immediately fell back down when his head surged in protest. He clapped his palms over his eyes, willing the throbbing to stop.

After a long moment, John reluctantly slid his hands aside and opened his eyes once more, praying that he'd merely been dreaming, and that he was lying in his own bed like he was supposed to. Obnoxiously, the scenery had not changed.

" _Bollocks_ ," he muttered in a scratchy voice. He swallowed hard, tasting the remnants of tobacco in his spit. Unfortunately, smoking was the least of his concerns, for John  was lying alone in nothing but his boxers in Sherlock Holmes' bed.

He scrunched his eyes tight, wheeling his thoughts back to the previous night. He remembered the pub and the ridiculous conversation they'd had and taking two last shots at the bar, but that was it. His heart pounded in his chest, and his throat constricted.

He let his head fall to the side, which was when he noticed a full glass of water and small bottle of paracetamol set on the bedside table. With a heavy hand he reached for the water, propped himself up onto his elbow, and chugged down half the glass. He fumbled with the paracetamol, managing to shake three into his mouth with more effort than should have been required. Once they were swallowed, he sagged back into the pillows, certain that he'd ever been so hung-over in his life.

While he lay there, waiting without much choice for the paracetamol to take effect, he did his best to assemble his manic thoughts into some form of order. A rush of questions swarmed in his head. _Who left the water and pain killers, me or Sherlock? (If it was me, I have to be the most self-considerate drunk in history, and if it was Sherlock, I think I'll just die of shock) Where is Sherlock now? When did I have a cigarette? How did we get back to the flat last night? What did we do once we got here? Why in bloody hell did I think it was a good idea to spend the night in Sherlock's bed? Did Sherlock spend it with me? Did we-_ He had to stop himself before he made his headache any worse. This had to be the most uncomfortable 'morning after' (whatever 'after' meant) he'd ever experienced, and that was saying something.

As John glanced around the room, it occurred to him that he'd never spent much time there before. It was impeccably neat, with little ornamentation and everything in its specific place. John frowned, wishing Sherlock would exercise the same level of organization in their shared spaces. Of course, it wasn't like Sherlock spent a great deal of time in his room. Even on the rare occasion that he did sleep, he was usually splayed out on the couch rather than in his bed. _That's right, Sherlock almost never sleeps in here_ , John assured himself.

His eyes wandered to the walls. Among the few decorative items was a framed print of the periodic table. John stared at it, at a loss for why Sherlock would feel he needed such a thing. He surely had it memorized, so the only reason could be…sentiment? If John didn't know any better he'd have found the presence of it 'cute,' but that was not a word that belonged anywhere near a description of Sherlock.

Yet, what struck him as particularly strange about the state of Sherlock's room was that very little of it reflected the unique eccentricity of the man. Besides the periodic table, the only other thing that rang as 'Sherlock' was a glass case displaying vials, beakers, framed insect specimens, and antique medical tools, among other things John couldn't make out from the bed. The rest of the room was bare except for simple, unassuming furniture. If John really thought about it, he would have expected Sherlock's room to be cluttered with books, stacks of paper, dead animals, jars of pickled God-knows-what, and anything else he'd found grotesquely amusing. Instead it was clean, almost charming.

Once John was satisfied that he'd catalogued every detail of the room from his limited vantage point, he rolled onto his side, propped himself up, and set about the task of locating his mobile. Looking down, he found his jeans on the floor next to the bed. He reached for them in a thoroughly pathetic manner and dragged them up onto his lap. As usual, his mobile was in the back left pocket. He flipped it open.

The time read 12:14. He blinked at the glowing screen in disbelief. John hadn't slept in so late since University, and even then it was a scarce occurrence. He draped his forearm over his eyes and laid the phone flat on his chest, attempting to gather some courage with a few deep breaths.

After a couple moments, and with great difficulty, John pecked at the keypad with shaky fingers and typed the following message:

_Sherlock?_

It took only a few seconds before his phone buzzed with a reply.

_Good afternoon. SH_

John stared at the message, mind blank. Moments later, the phone buzzed again in his hand.

_Tea in a few. SH_

John glared at the words. _Tea in a few?_ he thought acidly. _That's it?_ He resisted the urge to slap himself in the face with his phone. He kicked his feet, throwing the blankets from his legs, and pulled on his jeans.

Very carefully, for his head was still pounding, he brought himself to a sitting position. The room lurched and John felt a fleeting wave of nausea pass through him.

"I'm never drinking again," he muttered to himself, settling before reaching for his t-shirt, which was draped over the bed's footboard. Just as he pulled the shirt over his head, which smelled sickeningly of cigarette smoke, his mobile vibrated beside him.

_Liar. SH_

John grumbled out a vivid string of curses for Sherlock's eaves-dropping pleasure and swung his feet over the side of the bed. It took a few deep breaths, extremely slow movements, and a couple failed attempts before he managed to stand and make his way to the door. He paused before it, hand frozen a few inches from the handle.

He contemplated the possibility of making a run for his room without Sherlock noticing, but he would probably vomit on the way. The evidence against him would be overwhelming. Perhaps he could pretend nothing happened. Sherlock might go for that, but then John would never know what transpired between them, and his debilitating curiosity was already torturing him. That is, assuming Sherlock remembered. Maybe he was sitting out there as befuddled as John was.

With no small amount of courage, John turned the handle and pulled open the door. He trundled down the hall until he reached the archway of the kitchen and could see Sherlock sitting his usual chair, dressed impeccably as always, with an old book in hand. His eyes darted to John for an instant before returning to the pages.

John made to take a step, but Sherlock jutted out a hand without looking up and thwarted him in his tracks.

"Stop. Tea. On the floor," he said shortly, pointing to the ground in front of John.

John stared down at the cup at his feet, its contents steaming.

"If I bend down to get it I'll throw up on it," John confessed after a moment. Sherlock looked up at him again, the intensity of his gaze nearly toppling John over. His irises were impossibly pale in the grey light, pupils pinhole-thin. John swallowed hard on a fluttering sensation high in his chest as Sherlock placed his book on the table beside him, rose from his chair, and sauntered towards him. Standing before John, Sherlock met his eyes in a way that made John dizzy. Just as John's lips parted for him to speak, though he had no idea what he would say, Sherlock bent down, picked up the cup, and rose again. He handed the mug to John, who took it with trembling fingers.

"You look hung-over," Sherlock stated, face unreadable.

"No shit, Sherlock," John sneered, glowering at him. "Aren't you?"

"Of course not."

John nearly screamed. He pushed past Sherlock and stumbled to his usual chair, the effort of standing having grown far too cumbersome. He curled up on the cushions, taking a short sip of his tea and letting its heat soothe his nausea and sore throat. When Sherlock sat across from him in his own chair once more, crossing his legs and drumming his fingers on the arm rests, it became clear to John why so many domestic disputes resulted in homicide.

"You son of a bitch," he sniped, shaking his head.

"Pardon?"

"Look at you. You're the same as you always are, with your tight button-ups and elegantly disheveled hair and your cheekbones. How are you not hung-over right now? It's not fair. I feel like death."

"You look like it too."

"Oh, good to know. Thank you for your brilliant input, you bloody—"

"Curving the effects of a hangover is a matter of simple biology. It's easy once you understand the chemical—"

"I know you forget sometimes, and by 'sometimes' I mean 'all the time,' but I am actually a doctor, Sherlock. A _doctor_. I think I understand how hangovers work."

"Bit snippy today, aren't we?" Sherlock said, smirking. John exhaled and rubbed his puffy eyes.

"Sorry. I'm just—you know. Thanks for the tea." John watched Sherlock nod once through the cage of his fingers. "I don't suppose you could tell me," John began, feeling the fluttering in his chest return with a vengeance, "why I woke up in your room this morning." He kept his eyes hidden behind his hand, hoping Sherlock didn't notice how bashful he was being. The tips of his ears burned.

"Blacked out, did you?"

John nodded.

"I can't believe I'm asking you this but…did…erm…did we…sleep together?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"No, no, not like that. I mean, did we sleep in the same bed, not-not the other kind of sleeping together. Obviously that wouldn't…you know, because I'm not…we're not..."

"What's the last thing you remember?" Sherlock asked, oblivious to John's inane babbling. John cleared his throat.

"Taking two tequila shots that I really don't want to think about right now."

"The last two?"

"For the rest of my life, yes."

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured, eyes narrowing. John pulled his hand away from his face and looked at Sherlock sideways.

"You remember everything, don't you," John stated, not bothering to dilute the contempt in his voice.

"Obvious."

"Of course you do. In fact, I'd wager you've never blacked out in your life. Am I right?"

"I said alcohol consumption slows my mind, I didn't say it turns it off."

"Well, then? I don't even remember coming back to the flat, so, tell me…what am I not remembering?"

John watched as the gears in Sherlock's head turned, but he'd lost the ability to read him since the pub the night before. Sherlock's mask had returned.

"I don't think I'll tell you."

"What? What do you mean? You _have_ to tell me." John was suddenly bordering on hysterical. He placed his mug on the table next to him to avoid spilling it.

"No, I really don't. Use your powers of deduction, John. I must say, I was very impressed with how far you've come last night, and it takes a lot to impress me. You have all the evidence you need right before your eyes. All you have to do is put it together."

John blinked. He'd seen the self-proclaimed sociopath do a lot of questionable things, but this was by far the worst. He was being downright evil.

"You…you…" he stammered, head pounding more by the second.

"I'm going out," Sherlock interrupted, standing briskly and striding across the room. By the time John turned in his seat to look at him, Sherlock was already pulling on his long coat. "You have the rest of the day to figure it out."

"Or what?" John asked in a falsetto.

"Goodbye!" Sherlock shot him a beaming smile before dashing out of the door and slamming it behind him. John jumped to his feet, having every intention of chasing him down and throttling him. Yet, his hangover would not have it: bile surged up to his throat and his head exploded in pain, sending him plummeting to the floor.

John sat there, head spinning, and stared at the carpet. He reached for his mobile and punched at the keys.

_I hate you._

Seconds later, it buzzed in his hand.

_Liar. SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your reviews mean nothing to me. -Phyona  
> Liar. -You
> 
> BUSTED.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter here took a lot out of me. Tapped my reserves, so to speak. The only thing for it is a nice Malbec and some Stilton. 
> 
> Hmm..there really is an abundance of alcohol-talk in this fic, isn't there? If fics could drink, this one would be a lush. A blushing, sexually frustrated, stumbling, ambiguously homoerotic lush.

After spending a few minutes composing himself, and suppressing the urge to chuck his mobile across the room, John made his way to his feet again. He felt very sorry for himself as he shuffled his way to the bathroom, shoulders slouching and feet dragging.

Coming to stand before the mirror, bracing his hands on each side of the sink, John was disturbed by the image of the person looking back at him. His eyes were swollen, underlined by dark shadows, and his hair jutted out in every direction. Sherlock hadn't been exaggerating when he said John looked like death. He bit his lip. At least Sherlock had an affinity for corpses, so things could be worse. Perhaps he even preferred John as a zombie.

He grumbled, turned on the shower, and peeled away his soiled clothes. The instant the hot water hit his back John felt a wave of relief tingle through him. He scrubbed slowly, savoring the beating stream of warmth on his shoulders. The pulsing of his headache was steadily subsiding, and the water soothed his legs, which he hadn't even realized were sore until he glanced down and saw a few mysterious bruises dotting his ankles and hip. He chose to ignore them for the time being, letting himself be held by the steam. For those precious minutes John's mind went blank.

Unfortunately, by the time he had finished, brushed his teeth, and dressed in fresh clothing, the hoard of unanswered questions returned with a vengeance. He lounged back on his bed, cushioning his damp head with his forearm, and stared at the ceiling.

The situation he had gotten himself wrapped up in was nothing short of absurd. Not only had he managed to drink himself into forgetting the most incriminating part of his night, but he had done so with the world's greatest manipulator. By comparison, an alleyway in Hackney was starting to look appealing. Out of spite, he contemplated damning Sherlock's little game to hell, settling with never knowing exactly what turn of events landed him in his flatmate's bed, but thought better of it.

What if Sherlock _had_ spent the night sleeping beside him, in the dark, under the covers? What if they hadn't just slept? The fact that he even had to ask himself the question was most unsettling. No matter how desperately John wanted to, he just couldn't trust that his drunk, uninhibited self managed to stay within the strict parameters of their platonic partnership. Before he blacked out, John hadn't exactly been the poster boy for heteronormality. He recalled blushing at some of Sherlock's more alluring comments, his heart fluttering in his chest like he was fifteen again. He remembered how his gaze lingered a little too long on the pout of Sherlock's lips, the taught buttons of his shirt, and the sinewy skin of his neck. And then there were Sherlock's eyes, the way they burrowed into him and held on. They made him say things that had no business coming out his mouth. If he wasn't so appalled by the idea, John would even go so far as to say he had subconsciously flirted with the man.

John pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He wasn't attracted to men, never had been, so how had this happened? It was enough to make his brain burn. Of course, he never really thought of Sherlock as just a man, in any regard. He was so much more than that. Where personality was concerned, he had to admit that he'd been 'attracted' to Sherlock from the moment they'd met. Despite the offensive moods he wound himself into, the moments when Sherlock hooked onto his genius and soared with it were enough to make John see stars.

Yet, it wasn't just Sherlock's mind that separated him from anyone John had ever met. The look of him, with his dark curls, high cheekbones, ice-pale skin and eyes, featured on a thin, tall frame, was overwhelming at the very least. How could John, even if he was rail straight, be expected not to feel something after living with someone who looked like that for so long? Straight didn't mean blind.

John shook his head. Fussing over his potential attraction was irrelevant if Sherlock didn't feel anything in return, and he had point-blank told him that, while he was "flattered" by John's interest, there wasn't a shot in hell. If Sherlock had never lost control and remembered the whole night, there was no reason to believe anything of a sexual nature had occurred between them. _Do you really believe you could persuade me to do something I didn't want to do?_ Sherlock's words repeated in his head.

Just as John was filled with relief, and a hint of cold disappointment, a jarring new thought struck him: what if Sherlock _was_ interested? Had there been signs? As John turned his mind back, Sherlock's words reverberated through his memory: _You perplex me._ _You know me better than anyone, even my own brother. You were exactly what I was looking for. I thought we could use a night out of the flat. Together. You said before that you didn't need to ask me if I was happy, implying that you knew I wasn't. I want you to know that you were wrong._

Sure, if it had been anyone else comments like those wouldn't account for much, but Sherlock had said them, and Sherlock was never polite, affectionate, or assuring, if he could avoid it. John couldn't resist the smile that spread across his lips. His thoughts were flooded with the detective, and he suddenly felt very tired, as though he'd worked his mind into exhaustion. Sherlock's words, playing over and over in his head, acted as a deep, sonorous lullaby. He curled onto his side, taking a slow breath, and felt a dozing sleep creep through his hangover and begin to hold him. Sleep. Bed. He was cold. There was a draft from the window. Without thinking he reached out for something. What was he reaching for? Something warm.

And then it hit him, a flash of memory forgotten. His eyes shot open, heart slamming against his ribcage.

He practically leapt from the bed, stumbling to his feet and freezing, body stiff with tension. "Oh my God," he said aloud, hands on each side of his head. He rushed to his desk and ripped open a drawer to remove a pen and pad of paper. In an instant, his curiosity over the previous night had gone from slightly debilitating, to all-consuming. There was no way of avoiding it, for while the memory was brief, more of an image than an event, he knew its contents to be true.

Sherlock had slept in the same bed as him.

It struck him that he finally understood exactly how Sherlock felt when he was on an engrossing case, as John starting pacing around the room in a perfect imitation of the consulting detective. He was keyed-up and aggravated, having no idea where to start looking. The necessity to know buzzed through him, overwhelming all other needs (hunger, thirst, exhaustion).

He could go to the 'scene of the crime,' so to speak, and fish around Sherlock's bedroom for something incriminating, but if he'd learned anything from his detective mentor it was that ascertaining the cause was essential to deducing the effect.

He gripped his desk, leaning over it and frowning. He knew they hadn't just gone straight to bed. He recalled suggesting a bottle of wine once they returned to the flat. Perhaps he could check the kitchen to see if the bottle was still there, but just as he began turning to leave his room, something caught his eye. The window behind his desk, which he always closed before he left the flat, was wide open, and the medical books he kept propped in front of it had toppled over. He instantly had a vision of him and Sherlock, as if they were ghosts, climbing onto the desk, laughing when the books fell over, and stepping out the window onto the fire escape.

Tucking the notepad and pen into his back pocket, John climbed up onto the desk and squeezed through the window.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock returned just as the cloudy sky faded from slate grey into black. When John heard the front door open and shut, and the familiar thumping of feet up the stairs, he was sitting in his usual armchair. For a brief moment, he heard Sherlock's steps pause behind the door before he opened it and stepped inside. John turned and shot Sherlock a severe look.

"I brought take-away," Sherlock said innocently, holding up a brown paper bag and offering a half smile. John turned back away from him without answering, doing his best to keep his expression hard. He listened as Sherlock swept into the kitchen, putting the bag on whatever empty space was left on the table. He could hear the swish of heavy fabric, and guessed that Sherlock was taking off his coat. As Sherlock hung it on the wrack beside the door, John could sense his gaze on him.

"How's the hangover?" Sherlock asked. John made a noise similar to a bark, immediately revving up.

"Don't pretend you care," he scoffed, cringing at how childish he sounded, but carrying on. "And what are you doing? You never pick up take-away."

"I assumed that since all you've eaten today is beans on toast, you'd want something more substantial."

"How did—you—well, did you also assume that I'd be livid with you? Because don't think for a second that a couple of egg rolls will make up for that stunt you pulled on me this morning." Sherlock crossed the room and sat in his armchair, facing John just as he had earlier that day.

"To what… 'stunt-pulling' are you referring?"

"Don't play dumb with me, it doesn't suit you. You bloody made me scrounge around the flat all day with a raging hangover to figure out what happened last night, when you could've just told me yourself. Do you have any idea how unfair that is? Especially given the…nature…of last night." John felt his cheeks flush and hated himself for it.

"Well?" he said, steepling his fingers against his mouth.

"Well, what?"

"What are your deductions, then?" Sherlock asked, totally unaffected. John was so agitated he was starting to sweat.

"Why should I even tell you? I don't owe you anything."

"That's true, but then how will you know if your theory is correct? Would you be content with eternal uncertainty?" The corner of Sherlock's lip quirked up. John had to grip the arms of his chair to keep from pouncing on him and throwing a few well-deserved punches.

"So, hypothetically, if I _should_ choose to tell you what I think happened, and I'm not saying I will…you would tell me if I was right?"

"Of course."

"And if I'm wrong you'll tell me what really happened?" Sherlock just stared at him, unchanged. "Sherlock…" John warned.

"Agreed," Sherlock affirmed after a long moment.

"Fine," John sighed, leaning forward in his chair and weaving his fingers together. "I guess I'll start from the beginning then…"

"That would make the most sense."

"Alright," John began, taking a deep breath and releasing it with pursed lips. "Well, when we first got back we grabbed a bottle of wine, no glasses though, and decided it would be a brilliant idea to climb out my bedroom window and sit on the roof. I'm not even going to get into how dangerous that was given how drunk we were."

"Your evidence?"

"Window in my room was open, the books on my desk pushed aside. On the roof I found the empty bottle of wine. There were no glasses up there or in the sink, so, we must have just shared it."

"Did you find anything else?"

"Yes. I had the taste of tobacco in my mouth when I woke up this morning, so I knew we smoked, as much as I hate to admit it. I only found one cigarette butt on the roof though, so we probably shared. I guess you must have found where I hid your pack."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Or…I gave it to you. Wow, why would I do that?" he asked himself, turning his head to the side. He'd been so good at not being an enabler to Sherlock. Apparently his resolve wasn't impervious to sad-puppy eyes when alcohol was involved.

"Continue," Sherlock said, an edge of impatience in the word.

"Well, we were up there for a while. I have no idea how long, but enough time to drink a bottle of wine, so maybe even a few hours. When we made it back down, and I can't imagine how neither of us fell to our deaths, we went to the living room. Oh, and I think I tripped on the stairs on the way, since I have a couple bruises on my ankle and hip. Not bad, though."

"How do you know you didn't trip on the fire escape?"

"Because it would hurt a lot more. Also, there were scuff marks on the stairs."

"Good," Sherlock said, gesturing for him to continue.

"We played cards in the living room. The deck was on the end table, and a few cards were missing, but I found them under the sofa. I'm not sure what we played, but the two cards I found were both jacks."

"It was 'Go Fish.'" John blinked at him.

"Are you serious?" he asked. "Jesus, how old are we?"

"By _your_ insistence."

"No…"

"I wanted to play bridge."

"Who won?" John asked, smirking when Sherlock glared back at him. "I did? That's unexpected."

"It is not a game of strategy."

"You're just bitter."

"Proceed with your deductions."

"Fine. So, after the cards, we moved to the kitchen." He waited for Sherlock's nod of encouragement before continuing. "And I made toast with jam. A lot of jam. As in half a jar."

"I prepared the toast. I had forbidden you from operating electrical appliances by that point. But yes, you did get a bit overzealous with jam application."

"And I guess…um…after that we probably watched a bit of telly, and I'm sure I was getting tired by that point."

John rubbed the back of neck. He suddenly felt reluctant to continue, for they were fast approaching the conclusion of the bender. Revealing a secret affinity for child's card games and jam was hardly his greatest concern.

"Is that it?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow.

"No. I, well…I guess I hadn't been keen on climbing back up the stairs, probably because I fell before. I hate sleeping on sofas so…"

"So you decided my bed was your best option."

John felt heat rise in his face. He looked down at his hands and nodded, before he added, "and so did you."

"Well, it is _my_ bed," Sherlock huffed. It flashed to John how blatant it was that Sherlock was a younger sibling.

"I sort of…cheated on that evidence though. I remembered a bit."

"Oh, you did, did you? What 'bit' did you remember?" John felt his breath hitch in throat. He opened his mouth to say "reaching for you as you slept beside me," but the words wouldn't come. A far more pressing question swelled in his throat. He shut his eyes tight, and before he could think too much on the consequences, let the words fall from his lips.

"There was only one cigarette butt, and I don't smoke, so...so why did my mouth taste like cigarettes this morning?" John's whole body tensed as he sat there, eyes shut tight and face scrunched up, waiting for Sherlock's reply. He couldn't breathe. Long, agonizing moments passed, and Sherlock still hadn't answered. Bravely, he cracked open his eyelids and risked looking at the man sitting across from him. Sherlock was smirking at him, a terrible curl in his lips and mocking humor in his eyes.

"Am I to understand you are deducing that we kissed, John?"

John's heart sank in his chest and his mouth went dry. That was exactly what he'd done, and hearing it repeated back to him in Sherlock's snarky burr made him feel like a fool. He tried to chuckle, to pretend that Sherlock had been off the mark and that John would never think something so stupid, but it was like his voice had turned off. He managed a half smile, and shook his head, but there was no way Sherlock wouldn't see through such a pathetic evasion.

"John?" Sherlock said, and when he looked back at him he found Sherlock's face serious, eyes unsure and searching. There was a hint of something else too, which looked hauntingly like pity. It was horrifying enough to bring John's voice back to him.

"Are we done?" he asked, much louder than he'd intended, and sprang to his feet. His thoughts, stinging and manic, bounced around in his head, dizzying him. "I hope you're satisfied with my ' _deduction skills_.'" He spat the words like they were curses. "As always, it's my pleasure to be fodder for your experiments, so if we're quite finished, I'm going to bed." He turned to leave.

"John."

"My  _own_ bed, so don't worry," he added, snapping back to Sherlock and immediately regretting it. He must have looked crazy, judging by the expression on Sherlock's face. He had gotten to his feet as well and took a step towards John.

"Don't!" John yelled, backing up towards the stairway and holding out his hand. "I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry. I'm just tired and I feel—I feel—I'm just done. Eat the food, I'm not hungry. I'm…I'm fine," he stammered, stopping when the back of his heel hit the first step. "You know, I didn't actually think we'd—" he attempted, but panicked when his throat clamped on the word "kissed." He turned, and bounded up the stairs as fast as he could manage without looking too desperate.

He shut the door to his room and leaned against it, covering his face with his hands. His knees felt weak, and he slid down the wood until he was sitting on the floor. What had just happened? Had he lost his mind?

He could hear his heart beating in his ears, and he tried to regulate his breathing down from borderline hyperventilating. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why he'd gotten so upset. Perhaps it was a combination of exhaustion, hunger, and the lingering effects of his hangover. Or maybe he'd simply contracted Malaria and his brain was swelling. Regardless of the reason, however probable, he'd never felt so detached from his character.

Just as he'd finally managed to bring his breathing to a normal tempo, his mobile buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, but didn't turn it on, staring at the black screen. He swallowed, collecting himself as much as he could, and pressed the button.

_I promised to not take advantage of you. SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn't trade your reviews for all the disembodied limbs in the Baker St refrigerator. 
> 
> Wow...now I feel vulnerable.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And at last we come to the final chapter of The Last Drop. It was not my plan to end it here, but the fic took on a life of its own and decided to tie itself up nice and neat. This is the first fic I’ve ever written that I can take some pride in, and I have you lovely readers to thank. Your support has been inspiring and healing on a level I can’t possibly articulate. Just know that you made this lowly post-post-grad writer feel like she was doing something right, and she is forever grateful.

John stared at the text, reading it repeatedly as his mind fumbled to find meaning.  Before he was able to come up with a suitable reaction, his fingers began typing of their own accord.

 _And if you hadn’t?_   _Would things have gone differently?_

It was risky, and John felt unfocused.  Before his courage faded, or his sense returned, he shut his eyes tight and hit _send_. 

The long drag of time before his phone buzzed in reply was unbearable.  He was about to slam the back of his head into the door when he felt a gentle vibration in his palm.

_No.  SH_

“Well, that was _clear_ ,” John mumbled.  He shut the phone and set it face down on the floor beside him, as if looking at the curt word any longer would scald him.  He tried to take a few deep breaths, but his chest was tight and it nauseated him. 

After a few dragging moments passed, the mobile buzzed again.  John couldn’t open it fast enough.

_Not like that.  SH_

John was used to Sherlock being cryptic, but this was ridiculous.  He was at a complete loss for a reaction, in any direction.  There was only one word he could think to text back.  It would have to do.

_Why?_

The reply came almost instantly.  Sherlock was a master texter, if there ever was one. 

_Come downstairs.  SH_

_No._

_Then let me come up there.  SH_

_No._

_John, you’re being obstinate.  SH_

_I’m allowed._

_What do you want?  SH_

John didn’t have an answer to that.  He stared at the screen with his thumbs suspended over the buttons.  Sherlock messaged him again.

_This is complicated.  SH_

_Yeah._

They seemed to have reached a stale mate, neither of them willing to pursue the trajectory of the conversation.  The words ‘not like that’ whirled in John’s brain, indiscernible and frustrating.  They could have been in hieroglyphics for all the sense they made to him.  _Complicated_ indeed. 

After about five minutes of sitting on the floor and staring at the mobile in his lap, John rose and began undressing.  Changing into pyjamas was as good a technique as any to distract himself, or so he pretended.  Just as he tied the draw-string of his plaid, flannel bottoms, the phone vibrated.  He jumped and nearly tripped when he scrambled to pick it up.

_I’ll be in my room.  Please help yourself to the take-away.  I won’t bother you.  SH_

_I’m not hungry._   It was a blatant lie.  His stomach growled a rebuttal.

_Irrelevant.  You need to eat.  SH_

_Hmm, where have I heard that before?_

_If you don’t come down in three minutes, I’m coming up.  SH_

_Is that a threat?_

_Yes.  SH_

_It’s not a very good threat._

_Three minutes.  SH_

John tossed the mobile onto his bed, and made to take a step towards the door, but his feet wouldn’t budge.  He had the oddest sensation of having his mind scream for him to move forward while his body refused, rooting him to the spot.  His jaw clenched, and he balled his fists at his side.  John had never found his physicality so out of his control, which was saying a lot considering he was once afflicted with a psychosomatic limp.  Did he actually want Sherlock to come to him?  It didn’t seem appealing, but neither did venturing into the kitchen.  It wouldn’t be out of character for Sherlock to break his word and ambush John as soon as he hit the living room.  At least John knew what he was getting into should Sherlock come to him instead. 

He shook his head, forcing his body to stop playing tricks on him.  With renewed resolve, he walked to the door, took hold of the knob, and pulled it open.  A gasp escaped his throat.  Sherlock was standing barely a foot in front of him, plate of chow mein in hand, a withering expression on his face. 

“I said three minutes,” he stated, voice so low John swore he could feel it reverberating in his chest. 

“How long has it been?”

“Four and a half.” 

“Ah…”

“Here.  Eat,” Sherlock demanded, thrusting the plate into John’s hands and pushing past him into the bedroom.  John turned slowly, eyes wide as he watched Sherlock pace back and forth a few times, his blue silk robe swishing behind him.  Apparently Sherlock had experienced a similar thought process to John's, having changed into his night wear.  He finally settled by sitting at the foot of John’s bed. 

“Come in, then,” John muttered, sarcastic.  He crossed the room and took a seat as his desk, setting down the plate.  A wisp of steam from the noodles wafted into his nostrils, and such a wave of hunger took him that he picked up his fork. 

“Good?” Sherlock asked as John stuffed a hefty portion into his mouth.  He chewed and swallowed before replying.

“You heated it up for me,” he observed, disbelieving.

“Of course I did.”

“ _That’s_ out of character.  First you make me tea, then you bring me dinner?  Maybe you’re still drunk.”

“Not likely.”

John elected not to pursue his point any further, but rather devote more of his attention to the chow mein, which was rendered delicious by his lingering hangover.  As he shoveled it into his mouth, Sherlock adjusted his position.  He scooted until his back was against the wall on the far side of the bed, still keeping to the end.  He crossed his legs, rested his head on the wall, and locked eyes on John. 

“I’ve never spent much time in your room before,” he observed after a moment.

“Except when you’re going through my things without my permission.”

“Only by necessity.” 

John sighed.  Nothing was sacred when you were Sherlock’s flatmate.  Granted, John had also riffled through Sherlock’s things before, but only to check for drugs, which was a far better ‘necessity’ than whatever motivation Sherlock had concocted. 

With each bite John found his eyelids growing heavier, his mind slowing.  As his stomach began settling, it was as though his brain checked ‘hunger’ off its list of requirements, and began moving into ‘sleep.’

“Finished?” Sherlock asked just as John slipped the last noodle into his mouth. 

“Yes.  It was…really good.  Thank you.”  John met his eyes for the first real time since Sherlock had barged his way into the bedroom.  A wave of nervousness rushed through him, seeing Sherlock sitting on his bed, staring into him.  John shifted on his chair, willing his skin not to blush.  “So…” he said, resenting the awkwardness of the word.

“You’re nervous.  Do you want me to leave?”

“No!  No, it’s fine.  I just…”

“Your cheeks and the tips of your ears are flushed, your feet are fidgeting, and you keep meeting my eyes and looking away.  You’re nervous.”

“I am not!”

“Are too.”

John let out an animalistic groan of frustration.

“Why do you have to make everything so difficult?” he bellowed.

“Why do you have to be so ignorant of the obvious?” Sherlock countered.

“Well, why do you have to be so damn cryptic all the time?”

“Why do you have to be such an idiot?”

“Why are we arguing like nine year olds?”

“Because we’re immature!”

For a long moment Sherlock and John sat stock still, glaring at each other and panting.  In the back of his mind John mused that a third party would probably be able to see sparks fizzing between them.  Then, in perfect unison, they broke into a fit of laughter.  John was so exhausted that once he started he couldn’t stop, and soon tears were forming in the corners of his eyes and his stomach muscles were cramping.  The resonance of Sherlock’s deep laugh, rare and titillating as it was, fueled John’s silliness.

“This is ridiculous,” he said, sighing away a final chuckle.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.

“I’m really tired,” John announced, sagging against his desk.

“I should expect so.  I didn’t exactly make your hangover easy, did I…?”

"No. No you didn't. You never make anything 'easy.'" Despite his words, John offered Sherlock a tired, albeit fond, smile. His head was swimming, fatigue from the effort of sitting up beginning to dizzy him. "I'm just gonna…," he began, crawling onto the bed, which was close to the desk, and pulling back the covers. He ignored how Sherlock tensed up at his movements as he slid between the sheets.  John felt logy, frustrated at his body for dragging him towards sleep without his permission.

An involuntary sigh escaped his lips at the sensation of comfort.  He snuggled into his pillow, lying on his side facing the wall.  With the cool fabric on the side of his face and the weight of the blankets over him his eyes began to close.

“John?”

“I’m just resting my eyes,” he mumbled.

“I should go.”  Sherlock began sliding off the bed, but John reached out a hand to stop him, keeping his heavy eyelids closed. 

“No, it’s fine.  Stay.”  John grabbed the covers beside him and pulled them down.  “It’s not like we haven’t slept together before.”  His lips were sluggish on the words, the sound of his voice in his own ears seeming distant.  He was tired of being awake, tired of his little game of words with Sherlock, but mostly tired of pretending to not want things that he craved at every moment.

“It’s still early,” Sherlock argued.

“Don’t care.”

“What if I’m not tired?”

“You are.”  Sherlock fell silent, but didn’t move.  “Either get in, or leave.  Those are the rules.”

“Is this another game?”

“Yes, it’s called ‘the sleeping game’ and I’m currently winning, so get in here now or I’ll kick you in the face.”

“That wouldn’t be very sportsmanlike conduct.”

John moaned in frustration, still refusing to open his eyes.  He’d salvaged the last of his reserves to convince Sherlock to get in the damn bed with him, and now he had nothing left.  He turned over, facing away from Sherlock and curling on his side.

In a few moments, he was well on his way to being fully asleep, but just as he about to drift off for good, he felt the delicate shifting of the bedding behind him, and heard the soft slide of skin and fabric.  The curl of a victorious smile teased at his lips, and he shifted into a more comfortable position.  For a moment, he wondered if Sherlock was holding his breath behind him.  Even if they had slept together the night before, it was a whole new experience without the liquid courage clouding their minds, especially since John now possessed cognitive awareness.

The tension emanating off Sherlock’s body was palpable, even though they weren’t touching.  It was winding him up, pulling sleep further and further from his grasp.

With a deep breath, conjuring all the courage he could muster, John reached his right arm behind him and found Sherlock’s elbow.  He was relieved to discover that Sherlock was positioned as he had predicted: on his side, facing John’s back. 

Delicately, he slid his fingers down the silk, from forearm to wrist, until he met the bare skin of Sherlock’s hand.  He clutched it as though Sherlock would yank it back any second, and pulled it towards him. 

Exhaling the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, John placed Sherlock’s hand on his waist, smoothing it down, and returned his own hand to rest in front of him.  He clenched his teeth, praying that Sherlock wouldn’t remove his palm. 

It had felt, to John, like a big step in an uncharted direction, and if Sherlock hesitated now, it was over.  It was a small gesture, meaningless if Sherlock was anyone else.  But he wasn’t.  He was a brilliant, emotionally depraved, exceptionally unusual bastard, and if this wasn’t the catalyst for him and John, nothing ever would be.

Moments passed, slow and bloated with meaning, and Sherlock didn’t move his hand.  Soon, heat was flowing between them from the small bit of contact, as though their bodies were attaching to each other.  The tension receded from both of them.

When Sherlock spoke, it was barely above a whisper. 

“Does this mean you’re not mad at me anymore?”

“Mm,” John mumbled into the pillow.  A few moments passed.

“John?”

“Mmhm?”

“The cigarette was your idea.”

John sighed, releasing the last bit of tension he held in his body, and shaking his head a little. 

“John?”

“ _What_ , Sherlock?” he croaked.

“Nothing.” 

Despite his crankiness at being kept awake, John smiled.  In a last act of bravery, he took hold of Sherlock’s hand on his waist once more, pulling it forward.  Sherlock moved closer, the fabric of his robe now just touching the back of John’s t-shirt.  Warmth seemed to hum in the thin space between them.  John had planned on letting go of Sherlock’s hand, but once he clasped the cool digits it felt absurd to release them again.  Instead, he pressed their joined hands against the fabric of his chest.  Rather than flushing with nerves at the contact, as he’d expected, a tepid calm seemed to unravel from it, spreading throughout his body.  It felt like untying a knot deep inside him, like this was always how things were meant to be.

“G’ night,” John slurred.  He felt Sherlock’s warm breath grazed the back of his neck, inducing a faint and pleasant shiver through his body. 

“Goodnight, John.”

And John, who was so very tired, was carried into sleep.

 

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you’re thinking…. “AFTER ALL THAT THEY DIDN’T EVEN KISS???” But before you come after me with pitchforks and harpoons, I would like to happily announce that a SEQUEL will soon be coming your way. Patience, my darlings! Delayed gratification is the sexiest form of torture.
> 
> ...at least that's what I tell myself (and my poor boyfriend)
> 
> UPDATE!: that good ole' sequel I mentioned is now up and running! Proceed with love....

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for The Last Drop](https://archiveofourown.org/works/699676) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)
  * [Cover for The Last Drop](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2224275) by [Fabulae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fabulae/pseuds/Fabulae)




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